Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  As soon as the heavy door closed behind them, Tricia's hand clamped like a talon around her sister's arm. "Why in the hell did you tell him that? I'm organizing nothing, do you understand me? Pounding, indeed. Do you think any of my friends would be caught dead toting bags of gro­ceries into that rundown neighborhood?"

  Schyler slung off Tricia's hand. "Then don't. I thought it would make Daddy happy to know that you were taking part in company business. And I was right. It did make him happy."

  "I don't need you to make me look good in front of Daddy, thank you very much." Tricia spoke through thin, tight lips. She looked ready to kill. "I'm taking part in company business, all right, but in ways you might not like, big sister."

  She headed toward the elevator, where she endangered her sculptured fingernail on the button she punched. Ken touched Schyler's elbow. "Sure you don't want me to go with you tomorrow? That's a big deal you're negotiating all by yourself."

  Schyler had kept it to herself that Cash was going to Endicott's with her. That had been one of the smartest de­cisions she had made lately. She wasn't certain he still planned to go. If he didn't, she wouldn't have to explain the reason to anybody. If he did, Ken could find you after the fact. She didn't want to justify her reasons to him now.

  "No, thank you, Ken. I'd rather you stay here and over­see things while I'm away."

  Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair. "You're still mad at me, aren't you?"

  "No. This isn't personal."

  He gazed at her longingly. "Let's bury this hatchet, Schyler. I can't stand all this tippy-toeing around each other."

  "You and Tricia took one stand. I took another."

  "Forget Tricia. I'm talking about us. I don't want to quarrel with you anymore."

  "I have only one quarrel with you, Ken, and that's over Belle Terre. If you and Tricia persist in wanting to sell it, I'll fight you. Otherwise, we remain friends."

  "Just friends?" he asked, lowering his voice.

  "Just friends." She gave him a cool stare. "The eleva­tor's here." She walked away from him and joined Tricia, who was impatiently waiting for them in the open elevator.

  Fuck you, bitch.

  Schyler stared up at the words. They'd been ineptly scrawled in spray paint on the door of the landing office. She glanced around. No one was in sight. It was well past nine o'clock. She hesitated to go inside, but reasoned that the vandal had done his dirty work for the day. It was unlikely he would still be lurking around. She unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  The red glowing tip of a cigarette winked at her out of the darkness. With her heart in her throat, she reached for the light switch and turned it on. Cash was sitting behind the desk, his boots propped on the corner of it.

  "I guess you got the message." He nodded toward the door she was holding open.

  "Did you leave it there for me?"

  He snorted a laugh and swung his feet to the floor. "Hardly. I wouldn't waste good paint on what I could eas­ily say to your face."

  She closed the door. "I don't guess you would sacrifice two perfectly healthy cats either, would you?"

  His brows drew together as he eased himself out of the chair. "What are you talking about? Two cats?"

  She told him. "Ken disposed of the carcasses. He told me later that the male had been gutted. Do you use cat guts in any of your potions?"

  Cash's face remained impassive, his reply noncommit­tal. "None that I recall. I've strung a few fiddles with them though."

  She tossed her purse and keys onto the desk and stepped around him. "I could use a drink. How about you?"

  "I've had one already. But I'll take another."

  Schyler shook her head ruefully when she spied the glass on the desk. There was a fraction of an inch of amber liquid in the bottom of it. She took a secreted bottle of bourbon out of the lowest desk drawer and poured them each a drink. "Besides stealing my liquor, what were you doing here?"

  "Homework." He flipped open the manila file folder lying on the desk.

  Schyler sat down in the chair he had recently vacated. The leather still retained his body heat. It felt wonderful against the backs of her thighs and buttocks. She forced herself not to squirm.

  "Endicott," she said, reading the letterhead on the top sheet of correspondence.

  Cash sat down on the corner of the desk, facing her. "According to those letters, Cotton's initial dealings with the senior Endicott went well. Both parties came away happy."

  Schyler dragged her eyes away from the crotch of Cash's jeans, which rested against the corner of the desk. She reached for her glass of whiskey and took a quick drink. "Cotton said Joe Jr. was a cagey son of a bitch, but he seemed to respect him, too."

  "How is he? Cotton," he elaborated when she looked up at him quizzically.

  "Much better. He's been moved out of the ICU."

  Cash nodded. He pointed down at the file with his high­ball glass. "I've read through all the correspondence. I can't figure out what soured the Endicotts on us."

  "Well, I guess we'll find out tomorrow."

  "We?"

  "Aren't you going with me?"

  "You still want me to?"

  It cost her some pride to admit it, but she did want him along. For Crandall Logging and Cotton. For Belle Terre. And—who was she kidding?—for herself. "Yes, Cash. I do."

  Staring at her over the rim of his glass, he tossed back the rest of his whiskey. "What time in the morning?"

  "I'll meet you here at nine."

  "Okay." He stood up. "Let's go for now."

  "I'm not finished here." She waved her hand over the cluttered desktop. "I need to catch up on some paperwork."

  "I don't think you should stay here by yourself. Let's go." He hooked his thumbs into his belt and assumed a stance that said arguing would be futile.

  "I am tired," she confessed.

  "And tomorrow is going to be a long day. Besides, the bully might still be around."

  Or the bully might be standing right in front of her, shoulders pulled back, pelvis thrust forward, looking like a wolf in sheep's clothing. Before capitulating, she drained her glass just as he had. When she stood up, he was smil­ing as though he knew that last draught was a gesture of defiance.

  She went ahead of him out the door. "I'll have someone take care of this first thing in the morning," he told her.

  "Thank you, Cash."

  "You're welcome."

  His phony obsequiousness was irritating, but she let it pass. When they reached her car, he drew her around and pulled her close. "Whoever the son of a bitch is," he said, hitching his thumb over his shoulder toward the door, "he's got a damn good idea."

  Schyler's temper went off like a rocket. "You want to talk about it, I suppose?"

  "About what? Fucking you?"

  "Yes."

  His grin formed slowly. "Sure. Why not? Let's talk about it."

  "All right." She drew a deep breath to show him how bored she was with the subject. "It was a mistake to go to bed with you. I regret it. It happened. I wish it hadn't, but it did. I take full responsibility for my actions, but I intend to forget the whole thing. I expect you to as well."

  "You do?"

  "Yes I do."

  His whiskey-flavored breath was as balmy as the night air when he laughed into her stormy face. He leaned for­ward, aligning his body against hers. "Not bloody likely. Do you know what it means to a poor white trash, bastard kid like me to make Miss Schyler Crandall come?"

  She shoved him away from her and yanked open the car door. "Don't flatter yourself. It had been a long time for me, that's all."

  She peppered his boots with gravel as her car peeled out of the lot. He watched her red taillights disappear in the darkness.

  Cash drank straight from the brown paper sack. The li­quor sloshed in the bottle, indicating that the pint was al­most empty. He belched sourly.

  Where was that bitch?

  After Schyler left he had gone back into the office, snickering
at the crude message written on the door, and made a phone call. That had been an hour ago. He was at the filling station and liquor store on the Lafayette high­way. Across the street was the motel. He was waiting for Rhoda.

  She had b%en pathetically happy to hear from him. Oh, she'd acted aloof at first. She'd obviously been pissed off. He explained how busy he'd been. She hadn't been im­pressed or sympathetic and kept making snotty comments that had made him want to strangle her.

  He had said something to the effect of, "Fine. In the dark, one honey pot is as sweet as another. You don't want to play tonight? Fine." That had knocked her on her ele­gant ass. He named the time and place and she had agreed quicker than a sailor's zipper on shore leave.

  But now he wished he had just drowned his anger in the bottle of cheap whiskey and left Rhoda out of it. The new­ness was wearing off their affair. He was bored with her, especially since she had become possessive and clinging. She had served her purpose. He didn't need her anymore.

  Except tonight.

  Tonight he needed something or someone to work out his frustration on. Damn Schyler Crandall. She had loved cut­ting him down like a loblolly sapling, reminding him .n she had only used him as a substitute for the boyfriend in London who kept her sexually satisfied and in uptown style.

  "Shit." He drained the bottle and tossed it into the over­flowing oil drum that served as a trash can outside the men's toilet.

  So, Schyler wanted to forget their afternoon together? She didn't want anybody to know about it. Well, that suited him fine. He would never let himself become an object of ridicule like Cotton Crandall had. People kow­towed to Cotton because he was rich and powerful, the biggest timber contractor around. Behind his back, how­ever, they still remembered him as the redneck logger who'd romanced his way into Belle Terre. In these parts "money marries money" was the eleventh commandment. Cotton had had the gall to break that unwritten law and hadn't been forgiven for it yet.

  That wouldn't satisfy Cash Boudreaux. He wanted to be able to look himself in the mirror without knowing that his wife's last name had earned the respect he was shown. Schyler's slender, silky thighs opened to the sweetest, tightest piece of woman he'd ever had, but he wouldn't use it as a portal by which to enter Belle Terre.

  He'd get what he had rightfully coming to him in his own way and under his own terms.

  Amid his brooding he noticed Rhoda's black BMW pull­ing into the motel parking lot. He watched her alight. She kept the engine running. She went inside to check in and did so, using her gold card. Clasping the room key like a wino with a handout, she returned to her car, her phony tits a jiggle beneath her sleeveless sweater.

  Cash felt a yearning to fondle, to kiss, to suck—but not Rhoda's breasts. Cursing his susceptibility, he went to his pickup and got inside. He stared down at the ignition key lying in his palm and gave serious consideration to stand­ing up Rhoda and driving home to nurse his misery in private.

  Cutting his eyes across the highway, he watched her enter a room. She'd be hot, eager, grasping, willing to please, determined to please.

  What the hell was he waiting for?

  Resolve thinning his lips, he crammed the key into the ignition and revved the motor. A hazard to other motorists, he sped across the highway and brought the pickup to a bueking stop outside the door Rhoda had gone into.

  Wanting Schyler Crandall, he went inside to join the banker's unfaithful wife.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  "What's the matter? Have I got egg on my tie?"

  "Your tie is fine."

  "Then why do you keep staring at it?"

  "Because it's there."

  Cash, failing to see Schyler's humor, scowled. "I might have grown up with bayou mud between my toes, I was poorer than Job's turkey, but I'm not ignorant. On good days I can even read and write. I know when the occasion calls for a necktie."

  "Do you want me to drive?"

  "No."

  "You don't mind driving?"

  "I told you I didn't."

  "I thought maybe that's why you're being such a pain in the butt today."

  "Why should today be any different?"

  "Right."

  She flopped back in the passenger seat and turned her head to stare out the window at the scenery. It whizzed past her car, a blur of colors. Cash drove too fast. She remem­bered that from the night he'd picked her up at Jigger Flynn's house. They'd been escaping a derelict's wrath then. She couldn't account for his excessive speed now, except that he had been in a grumpy mood since she'd met him at the landing earlier that morning.

  He had mumbled his replies when she asked him about the assignments he'd given the loggers for that day. He accepted her offer to drive with a grunt. Beyond that, he hadn't spoken three words to her.

  His expression was surly, his attitude defensive. His shoulders were hunched as though he were ready to take offense at the slightest affront. His eyes were glued to the road. At least Schyler assumed they were on the road. She couldn't see them behind his aviator sunglasses.

  "Maybe I should have taken Ken up on his offer," she mused out loud. Cash didn't bite. She elaborated anyway. "He offered to come with me."

  "Maybe you should have."

  "He would have been better company."

  "He's quite a charmer, all right. Can charm the pants off anybody." He gave her a sidelong glance. "The Crandall girls seem to be particularly vulnerable to his charm."

  "You just love being vulgar, don't you?"

  "Too bad your hero can't fight worth a damn."

  "You pulled a knife on him!"

  "You're always jumping to his defense, aren't you?"

  Schyler ground her teeth, angry at herself for letting him draw her into an argument. It was obvious he was ready to do battle. She watched all ten of his fingers extend and stretch, then curl back around the padded steering wheel, gripping it tightly, as if he wanted to uproot it from the dashboard.

  "You're a sore loser, Mr. Boudreaux."

  His head came around abruptly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "I turned you down last night. Apparently most women don't say no to you."

  By slow degrees his whole demeanor changed. His pos­ture relaxed until it became a veritable slouch. He laid his arm along the back of the seat. He no longer looked like he might, at any minute, ram his head through the windshield in die throes of a tantrum.

  "You're right about that, Miss Schyler. In fact, the sec­ond one I asked last night said yes."

  This time it was Schyler's head that snapped around. The teasing smirk had been wiped right off her face. She felt like she'd been clubbed in the middle with a two-by-four. She recovered quickly and hoped Cash hadn't seen her stunned expression. "Congratulations."

  He flashed her a killer smile. "Thanks. Coffee?" He nodded toward the rest stop complex they were approach­ing at an unsafe speed.

  "Yes, please."

  As soon as he braked, Schyler alighted and headed for the ladies' room. She used the toilet even though she really didn't need to. As she washed her hands in the lavatory, she addressed herself in the mirror. "If you didn't want to know, you shouldn't have provoked him."

  It was unrealistic of her, having become one of Cash Boudreaux's conquests, to demand his respect. Fidelity, of course, was never even a possibility. His women were as disposable as the coarse paper towel she was drying her hands on. One was as easy to come by as another.

  In order to salvage her ego, before she left the restroom she smoothed the wrinkles out of her linen business suit and applied fresh lipstick. She even ran a hairbrush through her hair. When he looked at her today, she wanted him to see his boss, not a has-been lover.

  "Can you drink that in the car?" Cash asked, passing Schyler a Styrofoam cup of coffee when she rejoined him in the refreshment area of the convenience store.

  "Sure."

  "Good. I can't take the smell of those hot dogs."

  There was a rotisserie on the counter, slow-cooking fat,
red frankfurters for the lunch trade. Cash replaced the sun­glasses, which he'd pushed to the top of his head when he went inside. Schyler noticed his tired eyes, the green cast to his skin.

  "Now I know what's wrong with you," she said as they walked back toward the car. "You've got a hangover."

  "A real bitch." He grimaced.

  "It must have been some night."

  "A real bitch." This time he smiled.

  Sliding into her seat while he held the car door open for her, Schyler wondered at what point Cash's other affairs had become such a bone of contention with her.

  "I guess we have a deal, Mr. Endicott," Schyler said, "if that's the very best price you can give us."

  "That's top dollar. Compare us with other markets. I'm not bullshitting you."

  She resented his taking the liberty to use that kind of language in front of her in a strictly business situation. One slightly raised eyebrow indicated her displeasure. If he saw the censure, he ignored it. What could one expect from a man was was thoroughly obnoxious and continually cracked his knuckles?

  Joe Endicott, Jr. was a pompous ass, leaning back in his chair, a smug expression on his face. He seemed to think that he held all the aces. Unfortunately he did.

  One thing he didn't know, however, was that the deal they had negotiated would put Crandall Logging in the black with some left over. Schyler was elated, but she care­fully concealed her excitement from Joe Endicott, Jr. .

  "We've always thought Crandall's timber was top grade."

  "I'm delighted to hear that," Schyler replied to the com­plement. "Now to the terms of our contract, would you prefer paying us upon receipt of each delivery, or would you rather send us a check at the end of each week for the cumulative amount?"

  "Neither one."

  "Neither one?"

  Joe Jr. popped a knuckle loudly. "I didn't stutter."

  "I don't understand."

  "I'm not paying you at all until I receive every board foot of the order."

  "Then you must think we're stupid." Cash was slumped in the second chair across the desk from Endicott. Up until now he hadn't said much, only muttered in direct response to a question or comment Schyler made to him.